


idée fixe

by snowclone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Consent Issues, Dubious Ethics, Episode: s01e08 Fromage, Hannibal Always Knows, Kinda PWP, Loss of Control, M/M, Masturbation, Medically inaccurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 07:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13922520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowclone/pseuds/snowclone
Summary: How do you deal with a problem when the only person you can imagine going to for advice is at the heart of it?





	idée fixe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moistdrippings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moistdrippings/gifts).



> So, this started out as "Sexual disinhibition manifests as a symptom of Will's encephalitis." This is not that fic (though I hope someday I manage to write it). 
> 
> What this _is_ is a gift for moistdrippings. Many thanks to her for holding my hand through writing this, and to my other beta readers, who went above and beyond. Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> (Consent stuff in the end notes.)

It starts, or at least Will first becomes aware of it, as they're sitting alone in the wreck of Hannibal's office. It took hours for local police and forensics to leave, for Jack to get tired of waiting for whatever other shoe he expected to drop.

It was odd for Jack to be so much more suspicious than anyone else over a case that essentially solved itself, to be so sure that there was something still to be dug up. Will didn't feel whatever Jack did. Maybe there was something more to Tobias Budge and Franklyn Froideveaux's relationship than Hannibal could explain. Maybe there would be information uncovered in Budge's shop or home that would upend their best guess as to why everything happened _here_.

But Will's mind is, for once, quiet, now that everyone who doesn't belong is gone.

The oddly territorial thought is forgotten in the sensory overload that follows.

He's offering a hand up and a ride home to Hannibal when their eyes meet, not for the first time that day, not even the first time in the last hour. But Hannibal is so near, the both of them exhausted and practically leaning on each other, and Will for a moment can't bear to let Hannibal go, the need to keep touching coming on like an instinctive urge. Not for reassurance or comfort, but to—to pull Hannibal to him and hold him close, to lick the blood away from the swollen corner of his mouth.

Will pulls away, and Hannibal takes him up on his offer.

The drive is quiet, Hannibal reiterating a desire for rest and reflection, and a promise to see his doctor the next day.

He doesn't seem to notice that Will is aroused and doing what feels like a piss-poor job of hiding it. It may be politeness, but Will has a feeling that Hannibal would say something if he knew, if only to be sure it's nothing to do with the case.

—

Will avoids thinking about it as much as possible. It's a relief that he doesn't strictly have to see Hannibal more than once a week. It's alarming that he has to stop himself more than once on the way home from work from turning off on the exit that will take him to Hannibal's practice, or his house.

Going to Hannibal's house uninvited the night he kissed Alana Bloom had in retrospect crossed a boundary far better left intact. But Hannibal's easy acceptance of everything else Will threw at him made it difficult to see that the boundary existed at the time, and redrawing the line was a difficult prospect.

It's easier when he's around people who aren't Hannibal. Even Alana, his attraction to her not faded, exactly, but manageable. Despite the awkwardness, it might even be called healthy. He doesn't... dwell on her.

Not the way he dwells on Hannibal.

Will dreads that this attraction isn't even real; not something borne out of shared experience and a closeness he rarely achieves with others, not something he might feel if he weren't struggling in so many other areas. He fears that he's getting worse at processing and containing his trauma, and that Hannibal, one of the few sources of stability in his life, is becoming too much the focus of it.

—

He could channel it into something that isn't harmful. Couldn't he?

Sexual fantasies are private. As long as he doesn't let it affect how he treats Hannibal in reality, it shouldn't matter what he thinks of him in the privacy of his own head.

It shouldn't.

He's already hard, has been off and on all day as his thoughts circle back and return to Hannibal. It's only going to get more difficult to ignore.

So he undresses, gets into bed, and allows himself to think about it. Hannibal's intense vulnerability that night in his office. Seeing him like that, disheveled, uncertain, exhausted. It was... unexpectedly appealing. That didn't have to be a bad thing. Will hasn't even touched himself yet, has avoided doing so for days, and now even the pressure of the sheet and blanket on his cock is starting to feel like it could be enough.

The problem. The problem is that everything about Hannibal, even things that Will still finds offputting, has begun to seem appealing. His unwillingness to let Will avoid a subject, digging away when he's sensed a weak point until he's removed another layer from Will's intricate approximation of a Functional Human Being. His grace and ease in every aspect of his life, an experience so foreign to Will's that even when Will could reach Hannibal with his empathy, complete understanding remained just out of reach. His mannerisms that should put Will on edge but bafflingly were beginning to put him at ease. His total, unconditional acceptance of everything Will has ever told him, no matter how painful, twisted, or even, to Will's mind if somehow not to Hannibal's, banal.

Will wonders, then, how Hannibal would feel if Will told him about this.

He lets that fantasy spin out and gasps when he at last takes himself in hand. It's easier than he expected to ignore the Hannibal in his head who would find this unacceptable, who found Franklyn Froideveaux's attentions unacceptable. Hannibal hasn't found anything Will has said or done unacceptable yet, hasn't steered their conversations away from any topic no matter how gruesome or unsavory. Even Will showing up at his house late at night, interrupting what was by all appearances an intimate dinner—even then, Hannibal, though he made it obvious for Will that he was slightly put out, made Will's unscheduled visit and tales of romantic woe into an opportunity to provide honest and good advice, and food for thought.

That becomes the scene in Will's mind: Hannibal, playful and with a hint of jealousy, asking if Will had found the lack of acceptance of his overtures towards Alana sexually frustrating, and if there were anything Hannibal, as Will's understanding, accommodating, entirely devoted friend, could do about it.

Will's cock is dripping so much precome he doesn't need lube or spit, and he's so keyed up he won't last much longer. He wonders, and in the back of his mind worries, if once might not be enough after days of trying to ignore this.

He's most of the way there, the Hannibal in his mind on his knees and undoing Will's belt, when Will's phone rings and he groans in frustration.

He left it right by the bed out of habit, ringer too loud to ignore. And if it's Jack, he'll just call right back until Will answers.

He wipes his hand on the blanket and picks it up.

It's Hannibal.

Will doesn't drop the phone, but it's a near thing. It would be best to let it go to voice mail, but as he fumbles to keep the phone from clattering to the floor and waking up the dogs, he accidentally answers it.

It takes a second to get it up to his ear.

"Will? Are you all right?" Christ, even Hannibal's politely concerned phone voice makes his dick twitch.

Will tries very hard not to sound out of breath, or strained, or anything that might betray how he feels or what he was just doing. "Sorry, sorry. Almost dropped the phone."

"I hope I didn't wake you." Hannibal's voice is warm and intimate; despite the artifacting of the digital signal Will can almost imagine he's leaning over the bed, whispering directly into Will's ear.

"No! No, I was getting ready to knock off but you didn't interrupt anything." He winces, squirms and winces again at the sheet brushing over his frustratingly hard cock. "Did you need something?"

Hannibal is silent for a moment.

"Sorry, that was rude."

"Not at all, Will." Hannibal's voice betrays no offense. But then again, it never betrays anything Will fears it might. "I only wanted to confirm our appointment at the usual time this week. I mentioned to you and Jack that I might not be seeing patients for a few days in order to repair the damage to my office and reflect on what occurred. But that need not preclude a conversation with a friend."

Will's face warms. A few months ago he would have found the prospect of friendship with Hannibal an unwelcome burden. Now it's become something like a hot shower: necessary, but not to be indulged in too long.

"Will?" Hannibal's voice jolts Will back to awareness. He doesn't think he did anything loud enough to carry over the connection. "Will you be coming?"

"I'm sorry." He can hear the unsteadiness in his own voice. "It's been a long day and you know sleep and I don't always get along. I just started to drift. But I'll be there."

"I look forward to seeing you, as always." Will has to force himself not to palm his cock with his free hand. "Good night, Will. I hope your rest tonight is untroubled."

"You, too." Will thumbs the connection closed, grips his cock tight with his other hand, and groans. He has no idea how obvious he was and no idea if Hannibal _knew_ and was too polite to ever let on, or if he knew and their next conversation will be about appropriate boundaries and concern at Will's behavior.

At least Will didn't actively masturbate while on the phone with him.

He leaves the phone pressed against his cheek as he strokes himself off. Hannibal could almost still be there on the other end of the line. Was Will too obvious? Hannibal is so frustratingly hard to read. Will hardly ever picks up more than focused interest from him no matter the frankness of their conversations. It's one reason Will has grown to like spending time with him so much: he can feel almost alone, none of the weight of expectation, attraction, or discomfort that pressed in on him so often with others, but without the loneliness he learned to ignore but never quite banished.

But right now, he wants that weight.

What if Hannibal liked it? What if, what if. What if Hannibal was as aroused—well, that was doubtful—but what if he noticed and enjoyed the sounds of Will trying to smother his desperation?

Will kicks the bedding to the foot of the bed, too hot. Just the idea of Hannibal at the other end of the line, palming himself where Will couldn't see, carrying on a blandly pleasant conversation as Will barely held it together, was enough to set him off, coming hard enough he almost hurt, his grip going slick, wet heat spurting over his belly.

He can't catch his breath for a long time. The phone is slippery with sweat against his ear and he already needs another shower.

But he falls asleep between one thought and the next, and the nightmares don't wake him until just after dawn.

— 

He spends the days until his next appointment—meeting? not date, no matter what his dick thinks—with Hannibal in a daze of anticipation and dread.

—

Will lets his last class go ten minutes early and is leaving the parking lot at Quantico before it's officially over. Even as he's driving home he's debating with himself, yelling at himself. He never showered between work and his appointments with Hannibal, unless work involved getting contaminated at a crime scene. Even then he used the facilities at the department and changed into the clean clothes he kept in the go bag in his office.

His stomach rumbles, not sure if it's hungry or queasy. His headache never quite goes away, but with the jittery excitement of _soon_ thrumming in his veins it's easy to ignore.

He's home, standing in the shower and torn on whether jerking off would leave him better or worse off, when he runs out of hot water and the problem—well, it doesn't resolve itself, but it's no longer pressing.

He leaves off the aftershave. He doesn't even know why he uses it in the first place.

The one thought that makes the drive to Hannibal's office bearable is that he isn't like this all the time, with everyone. Even if he can't control his arousal, he's aware of what's happening and he can control _himself_. He isn't developing dementia, he isn't borderline or bipolar. He doesn't know what, exactly, is happening, or why. But when he looks at the problem with as much distance as possible, isn't a lot of his distress rooted in the fact that he's so focused on _Hannibal_?

—

"I know you're still bound by doctor-patient confidentiality even though your patient is dead, but I'm curious if you've had any insight on what happened last week," Will says as nonchalantly as he can manage. He made it through Hannibal's greeting without awkwardness, and took the offered condensation-clouded glass of nearly colorless wine without his hand shaking. He's grateful to have something to do with his hands, but worries that even the one glass may be enough to affect inhibitions he isn't used to straining against. Or perhaps the problem is that the walls that keep his behavior socially acceptable are beginning to come down and Will is trying in vain to shore them up.

Hannibal is silent, brow slightly furrowed, perhaps having picked up on the unvoiced questions Will wants to ask, perhaps weighing his answers.

Will, in trying not to stare at Hannibal's hands, at the traces of wounds still remaining on his face, is realizing just how easy his social interaction with Hannibal had grown before Will's perception shifted so dramatically. He has to cast much further back than he expected to remember the last time he sat in this chair and felt the overwhelming awkwardness of attempting to engage in conversation with someone who recognizes Will's affected behavior for what it is. Will hasn't felt the need to affect anything in front of Hannibal, so long as they were alone, for so long that he knows he can't start doing it again without Hannibal honing immediately in on it.

But it's not possible to relax either, in the thoughtful quiet.

And in the quiet it's so much harder to ignore the fantasy playing itself in Will's mind, vivid even when he keeps his eyes open and trained on the most innocuous objects in the room, of getting on his knees between Hannibal's spread thighs and pulling Hannibal's cock from his pants. He'd be soft, but Will could suck him, feeling it grow in his mouth and throat until he—

He blinks and sits up straighter. Will rarely crosses his legs, but lately with Hannibal his usual posture has become open enough that if he doesn't his physical state will soon be obvious.

Hannibal betrays no hint of awareness of Will's condition, clearing his throat but only to finally answer, "In hopes of avoiding any ethical missteps, I'll speak only on my interactions with Franklyn and Tobias Budge outside of this office. I had a short conversation with them at a fundraising recital, polite small talk, and I had the very strong impression that Budge did not think very much of Franklyn yet was possessive of his attention. He made a point to tell me that Franklyn had been watching me instead of the performer throughout the performance."

Hannibal's lips quirk in a near smile. "As I mentioned last week, I had been in the process of referring Franklyn to another therapist when Mr Budge burst into the office. Franklyn had become worryingly obsessed with me, or an idealized version of me who he was keen to befriend. I can't be sure, but I wouldn't be surprised if..."

He trails off and Will, _worryingly obsessed with me_ echoing through his head, breaks in. "If Budge was grooming Froideveaux, maybe he got jealous or enraged by Froideveaux's focus on you, so much so that no matter how much Budge disdained him, losing his attention or affection was a mortal offense. And if he knew he'd have to leave this life behind forever to avoid getting caught, he might have wanted..." Will hesitates. Psychopaths are often predictable, but ones like Budge might be motivated by anything. "...closure."

"Or a desire to break his toys rather than share them," Hannibal says, much more plainly than Will expected.

Will wonders what exactly Froideveaux did to drive Hannibal to refer him to another therapist. The thought of finding himself in the same position is enough to nauseate Will, but he's still hard, still has to constantly keep himself in check. Hannibal is staring at Will now like he knows what Will is thinking, knows how close Will is to abandoning self-consciousness and self-control and just— 

"—can you hear me, Will?"

Will's vision clears and he gasps for breath. He let the fantasy get away with him, again. Hannibal stands over him, a hand outstretched. Will doesn't think Hannibal actually touched him, because if he had Will would probably be on his knees right now. He can't meet Hannibal's eye.

"You weren't asleep this time. But you weren't entirely here."

"I'm sorry." Will should explain himself, but doesn't know how to begin. "I... got lost."

"In a crime scene? You aren't working any active investigations right now."

"No, it isn't..." Will trails off. How do you explain to your therapist that you fell into a sexual fantasy about him so intense it might as well have been a hallucination?

"Perhaps you should rest, even sleep?" Hannibal gestures to the psychiatrist's couch, always a place for Will to drop his coat rather than anything he considered using for its intended purpose. "It's your time, and I don't mind."

"That's not a good idea." Will is still hard, and it'll be impossible to hide if he's lying down.

"I think it would help you to get some rest. Or perhaps a physical change in perspective might help you articulate what just happened."

"I'm not here to waste your time."

"You aren't. I'll rouse you if you begin to sleepwalk." Hannibal is so placidly, implacably reasonable. Will wants to grab him by the head and shove— _shit_. 

"Why won't you leave this alone?" Will grinds out. 

"Your resistance to something so simple is beginning to concern me. If you're worried about your arousal offending me or making me uncomfortable, you need not be."

The fight goes out of Will all at once. He's somewhere between horrified and numb. He stands up, doesn't adjust himself. The short walk to the couch feels like it takes hours, and Will feels as exposed as he would if he were naked.

It's a relief to sit down, enough of one that he moves to lie down without Hannibal having to prompt him. He only resists the urge to cover his crotch with his hands because he knows he'd end up touching himself. "Is that why you asked if I'd been flashing back to a crime scene?"

"You've never mentioned any sexual dysfunction related to your work, but I imagine it must be extremely difficult to step into the minds of sexually-motivated killers."

Will attempts to relax back against the cushion but he's painfully tense, hands clutching the sides of the couch like he needs to anchor himself in place or risk flying apart. "Jack keeps me off of a lot of them unless he really needs me. I think it disturbs him more than it does me. But no. It's not because of a case."

Hannibal doesn't press. He probably knows Will is at a tipping point.

"It's just you." Will has to whisper it. "I don't know what's wrong with me, but I feel like I'm losing control, even just thinking about you. I hate it, because I know how you felt about Froideveaux, and he can't have been this bad."

Will can't bring himself to look at Hannibal, but closing his eyes makes him feel too exposed. He stares at the ceiling. "It's worse, now that I'm here. When I was zoning out, I felt like I was about to—to do something I'd regret." 

"How do you feel right now? Are you in control of your actions?"

"Barely."

"In what ways do you feel out of control?" Hannibal's shadow falls over Will. Will didn't even notice him moving closer, but he's at Will's side and catches Will's eye before Will can look away.

It feels like Hannibal is dragging the words out of him. "It's like being in school, but worse. I hadn't built up my walls very well. So it was constant infatuation, lust, shame, jealousy—not even directed at me but impossible to ignore. I knew exactly how the guys who'd get caught jerking off in class felt because I felt how everyone in class felt. Sometimes it was a... power thing, trying to get away with something. But most of the time it was just thoughtless, hormonal lust, pervasive and distracting until it was easier to give in than to keep trying to ignore it. That's the closest way I can describe it. And now it's all coming from me, and I _can_ control it, but only because I know it means there's something wrong with me."

"Do you feel your overtures to Alana Bloom came from the same root cause?" Hannibal looks thoughtful now. 

"No! No." Will cringes. The way he feels about Alana is... normal. This is... something else. Transference. A symptom of something worse. 

"Have you verbally or physically harassed anyone? Made unsolicited sexual advances? Exposed yourself in public?" 

"No!" Will practically yells. God. "But. Sometimes in my office—I always lock the door, but it shouldn't even come down to that."

"Are you persistently aroused even after achieving orgasm?"

"I can't _do this_." It's humiliating, lying vulnerable on Hannibal's pristine and probably mostly for show couch. He turns his head away from where Hannibal stands watchful over him because otherwise he can't help staring. He knows that his erection is blatantly on display, even now has to stop himself from rubbing his palm over the tented fabric in hopes of getting some relief.

"I can't help you if you don't answer my questions honestly, Will."

"I don't _have_ any answers. I try not to think about you." His face is so hot, he can't imagine how red it is. He darts a glance back up at Hannibal, but his face remains impassive. Will can't tell if he's disgusted, disappointed, uncomfortable, or resigned to having to deal with the fallout of yet another patient developing an inappropriate fixation on him. "I haven't done anything that could hurt someone. But. _God_. I have to stop myself from driving to your house. Whenever I think about you, in any context, I think about having sex with you. This isn't _normal_."

"You've never mentioned a regular sexual partner."

"Because I haven't had one. Not in years."

"How frequently did you masturbate before this started happening?"

_Christ_. "I don't keep track." He can feel, or imagines he feels, Hannibal's skepticism. "Maybe twice a week. If I'm in the middle of the few cases Jack does bring me on with a sexually-motivated subject, not at all, maybe not for months."

"And now?"

Will shakes his head. "I don't want to let myself."

"Do you feel that it's inappropriate to have sexual fantasies about someone you're not in a relationship with?"

"It isn't that." He keeps his palms pressed to the surface of the couch and doesn't let his hips move. He's still painfully hard. Talking about it is making it worse. "It just doesn't feel right. Alana... I'm attracted to her, but it's not—causing distress. I don't obsess about her."

"And you're obsessed with me?"

"What else would you call it?" Despite his discomfort with this line of questioning, he trembles with the effort it takes not to touch himself.

"Have you ever been attracted to men before?"

"No. I don't know. Not in any way that made an impression." Will's fingernails hurt where they're digging into the upholstery. He should never have moved from the chair. "What does it matter?"

"If this were sexual disinhibition with a neurological cause, you'd likely be less in control. You might not even realize anything about your behavior had changed or was abnormal. And you probably wouldn't be focused on me alone."

"So, what, you think this is just... sexual frustration? Transference?" It isn't possible.

"Your distress and the sudden onset of these feelings, and your difficulty controlling them, are causes for concern. I haven't drawn any conclusions yet." Hannibal pauses, to all appearances still unmoved. "You want to masturbate very badly."

Hannibal's face is still impassive, shadowed as he looks down at Will. Something in the steadiness of his voice, in the absence of any evidence that this is affecting him one way or the other, makes it easier to admit. Will almost relaxes. "I do. I can't stop thinking about how much I want to fuck you. To pull you down on top of me right here, or push you into your chair and unzip your pants and suck you off. I've never done anything with a man, but I can't stop thinking about your cock. I want to—I just want to c-come any way you'll let me." He holds eye contact, arousal overcoming shame for the moment. Hannibal's breathing is steady, and he hasn't moved, but in the dim light Will can imagine his cheeks have gained a slight flush. He's past the point of caring and moving to cup himself when Hannibal grabs his wrist and pushes his arm up and away until it's pressed against the couch just above Will's head. Hannibal stares at their hands as if he's surprised with himself. 

Will can't handle this. How is he supposed to keep resisting? Hannibal is closer now, leaning over him. The expensive scent of his cologne, and faintly under it the sweat of a long day, settles over Will.

"W-what are you doing?"

Hannibal locks eyes with Will again. "I was about to ask you the same thing, Will. Were you about to give up control?"

"Making me _talk_ about it is just making it worse."

"Will you keep trying to stay still? I don't want to have to restrain you." 

Will already _is_ trying. And Hannibal is already restraining him, and that shouldn't send a heady spike of arousal straight to Will's dick but it does. He can feel himself twitching in his pants so strongly that Hannibal would notice it if he weren't focusing so hard on keeping up eye contact.

" _Looking_ at me like that isn't helping either." He tests the strength of Hannibal's grip and finds he can't move his right arm. His hips arch up. He would hardly need any friction to come. "Can't you just leave me alone for—not even five minutes?" 

Not that Will _wants_ Hannibal to leave, but doesn't know what he'll do if he doesn't.

"Do you usually feel more clarity after you've had an orgasm?"

If Hannibal says orgasm again, so precisely, so dispassionately, so provocatively—he _has_ to know what he's doing to Will—they'll soon have an answer to his question. He doesn't answer because he's biting his lip so hard to stop himself from saying it, and the sting is almost enough to distract him from—

He has to look down to be certain he didn't start touching himself unconsciously with his left hand. But no. Hannibal has two fingertips pressed to the line of Will's erection, nothing more, but it's enough for Will to rub himself off against. He could cry with relief.

And shame. He squeezes his eyes shut against it. "You don't—stop, you don't have to—"

"Please, Will. I want to help you," Hannibal says, from much closer to Will's ear. Will has given in to him so many times and in so many ways, it's almost easy to let go this time, release a shuddering breath, and push against the press of Hannibal's fingers, his body craving more now that he has _something_.

He can't bring himself to open his eyes and watch, so the rustle of clothing is the only warning he gets before he feels the damp heat of Hannibal's breath against his ear. Will swears he feels the brush of skin against his neck and shudders. No matter how hard he arches against Hannibal, the pressure remains steady and precise. It's enough, it'll be enough, but Will needs to come so badly.

"Let go, Will. You've tied yourself into knots, and for no reason at all. I wish you'd come to me sooner." Hannibal's mouth is right up against Will's ear, and his hand is suddenly pushes hard against Will's cock, hard enough to hold Will down as he ruts against it, hard enough that it almost hurts.

A sob bursts from Will's throat just as it hits, and he comes and comes and _comes_ , shame and frustration and pathetic gratefulness washing away in a tide of relief and pleasure that goes on so long that by the time he comes down he's oversensitized and sore, and Hannibal is no longer holding down Will's wrist but brushing the hair back from his forehead.

Hannibal's hand feels almost cool, and Will abruptly realizes he's soaked with sweat, his face wet with more than tears. He wants to pull away. Hannibal's other hand is now resting on Will's hip. Will can feel him rubbing with the lightest pressure right where Will can feel the sticky wet of his release soaking into his underwear, and probably through his pants.

He doesn't want to look, but forces his eyes open to Hannibal kneeling beside the couch, staring down at his own hand. He doesn't notice Will watching him. His lips are parted, and his gaze is so intent Will can only assume with no small thrill that he must have affected Hannibal after all. A come stain can't possibly be that objectively interesting. 

Desire, banked and quiet in the moments since Will came, flares up and he heaves a breath. When Hannibal looks up, there are splotches of red on his cheekbones and a slight sheen of sweat on his brow.

"How are you feeling now?" Hannibal asks, and it's gentle but hungry.

Will doesn't see any way he can reply but with the truth. He doesn't quite dare to reach for Hannibal's tie and pull, but takes him by the shoulder and cranes up until he's close enough to kiss. "I feel like this was a mistake we're both doomed to repeat."

**Author's Note:**

> The degree of dubiousness of the consent here is up to interpretation since what is happening to Will isn't exactly defined, but if you have any issues with Hannibal's medically unethical behavior in S1 being taken in a sexual direction you might want to skip this.


End file.
